Publicat de: leonard oprea | 3 Octombrie 2010

leonard oprea:A WRITER’S TALE / POVESTE DESPRE UN SCRIITOR


leonard oprea

A WRITER’S TALE

POVESTE DESPRE UN SCRIITOR

***

Copyright © 2008 by Leonard Oprea. Library of Congress Control Number: 2008901520

***

For a Christian , truthfully living into God means:

moderation – which is  generosity

wisdom – which is  meekness

power – which is sacrifice

humility – which is the art and science of leading

The order can be different. Who knows?

But can a man be like this?

Can a Christian be like this?

Can even a part of all these make a good Christian?

Being a Man, Jesus Christ was so much more.

(Theophil Magus)

*** 

A WRITER’S TALE

Once upon a time there was a writer. He lived in this wide world of ours as one whose only gift was to write books. The kind of books, however, which from the first to the last page are pure fantasy, no more than tales spun by the human mind to talk of who men are and what they do, and about how they have done good deeds and evil deeds since Adam walked the earth.

And this writer, who had a family, friends and foes, like everyone else, had sailed successfully half way through his life and had written quite a few books, when it dawned on him that he cannot live another day without finding for himself the answer to a question that had been besetting him for a while now.

He knew only to well that this question had tormented many other writers more or less famous than himself, just as he knew that none of them, had they even been his parent or brother, would have shared with him the true answer. For this is how things work between writers and generally between people.

So this writer kept wondering, if I write books that are pleasing for everyone and everywhere, equally read by friend and by foe, I will make good and useful money. I will no longer have to worry about tomorrow. Even more, I will enjoy fame and countless favors. And if I write those wonderful and wise books that I hold so dear to my heart, few will buy them and fewer still read them, while the money will be less than I need to keep myself from starving. To say nothing of my family. I can’t be happy if I’m rich. I can’t be happy if I’m poor.

Which path should I choose? Thus our writer kept torturing himself day and night as he strove to find the right answer.

Finally he gave up writing books entirely. Both the ones that please everyone everywhere, and the ones full of beauty and wisdom, that he held so dear.

He kept himself busy for a few years gardening, teaching grammar lessons to those who needed that kind of thing, and spending the money he had made from selling his books so that at least his wife and children may live a carefree life.

He would tell all, even his family, the same lie: ‘I’m writing the book of my life and this story keeps me busy all the time.’

Naturally, that was not what was really happening.

All the writer did all this time was ask himself the same old question over and over again in various forms. Over and over again.

The man was utterly unhappy. He was running out of money and his palms were itching with the desire to write again. Any book.

Yet he wanted to know what was best and what was the right choice to make.

What finally happened was what one expects will happen to such writers under such circumstances.

Everyone abandoned him. Even his family.

God alone did not abandon him. Our man found a modest job and started his life over again, living the simple and natural life of an ordinary fellow.

After a while, he forgot all about his question. But one night he dreamt that he was talking to this other man, a man whose face he could not see. He knew he was a writer like himself. The man told him: ‘You eat when you are hungry, you drink when you are thirsty, you sleep when you are tired. Write, then, just as you manage to do all these other things. It is really that simple. Live as you breathe. Write as you breathe. It is really that simple.’

In the morning, the man woke up, gave a long yawn, stretched his bones till they snapped. Then he washed, ate something for he felt hungry, drank his coffee, and smoked a cigarette. For that’s what he felt like doing. And when he finished all that, leaving aside all senseless questions and answers, he started writing.

His first true book.

***

POVESTE DESPRE UN SCRIITOR

A fost odată ca niciodată un scriitor.

Trăia el în lumea asta mare, pe Pămîntul ăsta, precum un om căruia i‑a fost hărăzit să nu ştie altceva să facă decît cărţi. Dar numai acele cărţi care, de la cap la coadă, sînt doar născociri şi poveşti ale minţii omeneşti despre cine sînt şi ce fac oamenii şi cum fac bine sau rău de la Adam începînd şi pînă în zilele noastre.

Acest scriitor, care avea şi el, ca toată lumea, familie, prieteni şi duşmani, ajunsese cu bine pe la jumătatea vieţii lui şi scrisese destul de multe cărţi, cînd şi‑a dat seama că nu mai poate trăi fără să dea un răspuns întrebării care‑l chinuia zi şi noapte cam de multă vreme.

Ştia prea bine că întrebarea asta îi torturase pe mulţi alţi scriitori mai vestiţi sau nu decît el, dar ştia la fel de bine că nici unul dintre ei, părinte sau frate să‑i fi fost, nu i‑ar fi spus adevărul. Căci aşa e între scriitori şi, îndeobşte, între oameni.

Aşadar, îşi şoptea acest scriitor, dacă scriu acele cărţi care plac oricui şi oriunde, sînt citite oricînd şi oriunde şi de duşmani, şi de prieteni, cîştig bani buni şi folositori. N‑am grija zilei de mîine. Ba, mai mult, mă umplu şi de faimă, de fel şi fel de onoruri. Dacă scriu acele cărţi frumoase şi pline de înţelep­ciune, atît de dragi sufletului meu, puţini le cumpără, şi mai puţini le citesc, iar bani?! mai puţini decît mi‑ar trebui să nu mor de foame. Eu; despre familie nici nu mai poate fi vorba. Bogat nu sînt fericit. Sărac nu pot fi fericit.

Cum e mai bine, ce să aleg? asta se întreba scriitorul chinuindu‑se să afle răspuns cam de multă vreme.

Pînă la urmă a renunţat să mai scrie cărţi. Şi din cele care plac oricui şi oriunde, dar şi pe acelea atît de dragi lui, frumoase, pline de înţelepciune.

A trăit cîţiva ani ocupîndu‑se de grădinărit, dînd lecţii de gramatică acelora care aveau nevoie de aşa ceva şi cheltuindu‑şi banii agonisiţi din cîştigul vînzării cărţilor scrise pînă atunci, astfel încît cel puţin soţia şi copiii lui să nu ducă lipsă de nimic.

Tuturor, chiar şi familiei sale, le spunea aceeaşi minciună:

„Scriu cartea vieţii mele şi povestea asta îmi răpeşte tot timpul”.

Bineînţeles, nu acest lucru minunat se întîmpla.

Acest scriitor nu făcea altceva decît să răsucească vechea lui întrebare pe toate părţile, tot timpul.

Omul nostru era tare nefericit. Banii agonisiţi se împu­ţinau văzînd cu ochii, iar pe de altă parte îl mîncau palmele să mai scrie din nou. Orice carte.

Dar acest scriitor se încăpăţîna totuşi să ştie cum e mai bine, ce să aleagă.

Pînă la urmă s‑a întîmplat ce era de aşteptat să se întîmple în aceste împrejurări cu astfel de scriitori.

Toată lumea l‑a părăsit. Pînă şi familia lui.

Doar Dumnezeu nu l‑a părăsit. Aşa că omul nostru şi‑a găsit o slujbă modestă şi a luat viaţa de la capăt trăind simplu şi firesc, ca un om obişnuit.

După o vreme a uitat de întrebarea lui.

Dar într‑o noapte a visat că stătea de vorbă cu un alt om, căruia nu‑i vedea chipul, dar despre care ştia că e scriitor, ca şi el. Acesta îi spunea: „Acum reuşeşti să mănînci cînd ţi‑e foame; să bei cînd ţi‑e sete; să dormi cînd ţi‑e somn. Scrie aşa cum reuşeşti să faci toate acestea. E atît de simplu. Trăieşte cum respiri. Scrie cum respiri. E atît de simplu”.

Dimineaţa, acest om, scriitorul nostru, s‑a trezit, a căscat prelung, apoi s‑a întins de i‑au trosnit oasele. Pe urmă s‑a spălat, după aceea a mîncat ceva, că îi era foame, şi a băut o cafea neagră, la care şi‑a aprins o ţigară. Căci aşa simţea el nevoia să facă.

Şi, după toate astea, lăsînd focului întrebările şi răspunsurile fără noimă, s‑a apucat de scris.

Prima lui carte adevărată.

***

(from TRILOGY OF THEOPHIL MAGUS – THE TRUTH

X-LIBRIS Publishing House 2008

Copyright © 2008 by Leonard Oprea. Library of Congress Control Number: 2008901520

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4363-2366-6 Softcover 978-1-4363-2365-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.)

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  1. Ce rula la televizor? Iisus din Nazaret?

    Apreciază


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